


Swing, Daddy, Swing

by unicornsandbutane



Series: My Heart Belongs to Daddy [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Infidelity, M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Spy gives the Scout a particular record for Christmas. The Scout demands an explanation.</p><p>Warning: Somewhat incestuous. This was written before Blood in the Water, and so, we had less indication that the RED Spy is canonically the BLU Scout's father. Still, given the relationship between the RED Spy and the BLU Scout's mother, some material in this series could be seen as pretty dicey. Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing, Daddy, Swing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sillyscrunchy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sillyscrunchy).



> Summary: So after I wrote Hey, Daddy-O, I had a conversation with Scrunchy about it. Scrunchy said that the Spy would give the Scout an album with the Larry Clinton and Bea Wain version of “My Heart Belongs to Daddy”, because he ‘enjoys the classics’, and ‘knows how much Scout likes the song, and I said the the whole time during Christmas dinner, the Scout would be sitting there, sweating, like, “DOES HE KNOW? DOES HE KNOW AND HE’S TEASING ME? DOES HE NOT KNOW? WHAT IF HE FOUND OUT?! OH GOD HE’LL PROBABLY WANT ME TO PLAY THE RECORD… WHAT IF I GET ALL TURNED ON FROM LISTENING TO IT? WHAT IF HE KNOWS AND HE’S ACKNOWLEDGING IT?! BUT MA’S RIGHT THERE AND HE’S JUST CARVING THE GOOSE LIKE IT’S NOTHIN’! AUGH WHAT THE HELL?! WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?!” and Scrunchy said that by the time they left the Scout would be so worked up and sexually frustrated that he wouldn’t even feel like he went on vacation at all, and he’d be an absolute wreck, so he’d confront the Spy on the train back from Boston and demand an answer, and the Spy would just smile calmly and reach for the blinds “before taking care of the Scout, like a good daddy should.”
> 
> And then I wrote a thing.

"Now I know that you know why we’re here, petit." The Spy sat opposite him in the train compartment, fingers laced on his crossed knees. They’d be connecting to different trains to go to their respective bases, but that was hundreds of miles away, and the Scout could not decide if it had been a terrifically bad idea to barge into the Spy’s room so early on in the trip. That slight smile just barely shifting the material of the Spy’s mask made him nervous— he DIDN’T actually know why they were here, having this conversation. All he’d said was, "Whaddyu mean by givin’ me that record for Christmas?!" and that was when the Spy had drawn the blinds and turned to face him, lit dramatically by the sliver of light still escaping between the velveteen drapes. He didn’t know if the Spy knew, if he didn’t, if he was legitimately trying to find the Scout a Christmas gift he’d like. Maybe he was about to launch into a speech about how they might not like each other but they should make nice for his mother’s sake. But that thin little grin, mysterious and threatening, made him lean back a little on his bench.

"It’s a question of your behaviour," the Spy intoned, steepling his index fingers and pointing them at the Scout. -Aw hell- the Scout thought, -He totally knows. Of course he knows, he’s the goddamn Spook. How am I gonna talk my way outta this one?- "It’s not been the best I’ve ever seen. And I’m sure it would break your Mama’s heart if she knew what a naughty boy you have become without her watchful influence."

The Scout’s stomach turned over just as colour rose in his cheeks. He didn’t need to be reminded about how his mother would feel about his… indiscretions. The Spook was -her- boyfriend, first and foremost, and his own enemy, and a man, and a little under twice his age, at that. Old enough to be his father. His pulse picked up. He’d never known his own father, and maybe that was why he— why he could— He didn’t want to think about it. 

"Don’t think you’re too old for a spanking, young man. I could take you over my knee in a moment and show you the kind of discipline you’ve clearly missed since being away from home."

With a loud gulp, the Scout shrank back further into his seat, fighting conflicting and ludicrous urges to bolt or fall on his knees. 

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself? A boy of your age ought to be able to accept responsibility for his actions, so I’d like to hear it."

"I…" the Scout tried, his tongue feeling like lead, his cheeks hot enough to make his eyes sting, "I don’t, uh…" He didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry I jacked off while thinking of you, it won’t happen again,’ didn’t really cut it and he shivered despite himself when his mind added ‘sir’ to the end of that statement. 

"Speak up, boy!" The Spy’s tone was harsh, and the Scout jumped. 

 

“Dunno what I was thinkin’,” he mumbled.

 

“That isn’t a real answer, and you know it. Now I would like to hear a real apology, or we’ll repeat this exercise again.”

 

“S-sorry I—Look I dunno what you expect me to say! There’s a lot of mixed-up stuff goin’ on in my head an’ I know it’s wrong an’ not just a little fucked up, okay? I know that! An’ I know we’re on opposite teams an’ all that, just— just please don’t tell my ma!”

 

He could live with the Spook knowing about it. He could live with the man’s condescending smirk each time they met on the battlefield. But he couldn’t bear the thought of his mother having to know what kind of horrible, disgusting, screwed up stuff he came up with that a thousand confessions and a million rosaries were not going to fix.

 

“Tell your mother?” the Spy asked in mock affront. “Why, I couldn’t do that. I do SO hate to see her cry. What we need to do is settle this between us, and she’ll never have to know about it.”

 

“Whaddya mean, ‘settle it’?” the Scout asked thickly. He couldn’t see any reason to trust this man except that his mother liked him and he— well, he had feelings of his own.

 

“Why don’t you come over here, Scout?” The Spy held out a hand, and the Scout regarded him with suspicion. “Come on, come to Papa.”

 

Again the Scout found himself swallowing nerves and guilt as he took a few hesitant steps toward the man. Cigarette smoke curled around him, hanging lazily around the room but thickest at its source. The Spy patted his knee but the Scout sank to the floorboards instead. Brushing off surprise, the Spy ruffled the Scout’s hair.

 

“There now, that’s a good lad,” he said, ashing his cigarette in a silver tray on the windowsill. Speaking once again around the filter he added, “Aren’t you a good boy?”

 

The Scout shook his head.

 

“You AREN’T a good boy?” the Spy replied, feigning shock. “Why, how perfectly dreadful. I suppose we must do something about that, non?”

 

The Scout looked up at him, defiantly, willing his lips not to pout and forcing himself to keep the man’s gaze.

 

“Mais oui,” the Spy conceded. “Well then. Listen to your Papa and we will work this thing out, hm?” He smiled down benevolently and the Scout could only bury his face against the inside of the Spy’s thigh, inhaling against the fabric of his suit and shaking, wanting, hating himself. “There there, it will all turn out right.” Gloved fingers petted down the nape of the Scout’s neck. “You know your Papa loves you very much, yes?”

 

The Scout whined.

 

“Look at me.”

 

Their eyes met and the Spy tucked his fingers under the Scout’s chin.

 

“Do you love your Papa?”

 

Slowly, tensely, the Scout nodded, feeling on the verge of breaking down.

 

“You see? You –can— be a good boy. Just leave everything to me.”

 

He let himself be lifted, let himself fall into the man’s lap, let the Spy bring his face close with those fingers under his chin again. Under the smoke of the Marlboro Reds, the Spy still smelled like his mother’s shampoo.

 

“Are you too old to give your Papa a kiss?” The Scout had seen this man kiss his mother goodbye not two hours ago. Trembling, he leaned forward and touched their lips together, lightly, testing the waters, before the Spy moved forward, and the Scout wrapped his arms around the man’s head, hands fisting in the damned balaclava, and kissed him. Eyes tightly shut and hips canted away from the Spy’s body, he kissed him, knowing he might never have another chance and reasoning, rationalizing, that there were a lot of condemnable things he did: lying, cheating, stealing, murder, manslaughter, perjury, wanton property destruction, swearing, and vandalism not the least of them. This was just one more sin, one more nail in his mother’s coffin. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way.

 

Not when the Spy was pulling him down by his pelvis, grinding against him and just as hard as he was. Not when the man tasted of cigarettes, and maple syrup from breakfast (pancakes, Scout’s favourite, his Ma made them to wish him a good trip) and his face was slightly rough from perhaps missing this morning’s shave. Or maybe he was one of those individuals who needed to shave twice a day. All the best men do, somebody once said.

 

The Spy’s hands untucking his shirt, gloved fingers slipping down his back and dipping under his waistband, made him break the kiss, gasping, but still unable to open his eyes. Taking this as an invitation, the Spy leaned in to taste the Scout’s long, slim throat, teeth worrying the sensitive skin behind his ear.

 

“Your team mates will think you finally had some luck with a young lady when they see this. Ah, but you know better. And you’d never think of such a thing, would you?” These words, hissed directly into the Scouts ear, raised gooseflesh on his arms and made the small hairs stand up at the base of his skull.

 

“Moi? Non,” the Scout whispered, his accent atrocious, “Mon coeur est à Papa.”

 

The Spy looked at him curiously, and then chuckled, recognizing these as lyrics to that infamous song.

 

“Ah, c’est bien,” the Spy answered against the Scout’s flesh.

 

Popping the button on the Scout’s trousers was easy enough, and so was sliding them down— especially when the young man was so eager to help. With the Scout kneeling over his hips, he let one hand travel from the slope of the runner’s hip to the curve of his ass, fetching, he imagined, in those adorable white briefs. He slapped the Scout’s ass just once, for good measure, and took in the answering intake of breath. Already, the Scout’s cock strained against his underwear, slightly visible through the thin fabric, and the Spy let one finger trail from base to tip. He’d seen this man’s baby photos.

 

The Scout shucked his shirt of his own accord, dropping it hesitantly on the floor before demurely meeting the Spy’s eyes. He’d never seen that look on the Scout’s face. It was foreign, and terrifying, seeing him look so… tender. Vulnerable. He spanked the Scout again in retaliation, and watched for the fire behind the Scout’s eyes to return. It didn’t. The Spy shook him, trying to snap him out of it. The runner only looked dazed.

 

“Stop that!” he demanded, eyes blazing into the Scout’s.

 

He received nothing but vague confusion in response.

 

“This isn’t you,” the Spy insisted.

 

The Scout blinked, and the Spy wrapped the dangling chain of the runner’s dogtags around his fingers, and pulled him down.

 

“Where is your –spirit—?”

 

“I don’t wanna fight you, Daddy.”

 

And the Spy, damn it all, hauled him down again, and kissed him, and dug his fingers into the muscular flesh of the Scout’s toned ass, and bucked up against him.

 

He fought with the buttons of his own slacks, nearly broke the zipper, and could not shove them down his legs fast enough. He was tenting the front of his Lycra undershorts and when the Scout glanced down, thank god!, that fire was back again, lighting his mouth into something of a wry grin.

 

“Oh, —Daddy,—” he cooed, fitting his fingers against the cloth. He petted and squeezed and felt the Spy out.

 

“Yes, petit?” the Spy managed, feeling his lids flutter.

 

“Didja get another present for me?” the Scout teased, rubbing the Spy’s balls with his palm.

 

“Maybe,” the Spy answered breathlessly, “Can you guess what it is before you unwrap it?”

 

“I don’t like guessin’ games,” the Scout retorted, winking, before sliding back to his knees on the floorboards. Impatiently, he pulled off the Spy’s shoes, and turned his slacks inside-out in tugging them off. The Spy tsked at the careless way the Scout tossed the clothes into a heap. “It’s already past Christmas, so can’t I have my present now, Daddy?”

 

“You haven’t been a very good boy, you know. I’m not sure you deserve it.” The Scout looked up at him, mischief in his eyes.

 

“Prob’ly I don’t. But I’m pretty good at being –good— while I’m being bad.” He licked his lips, and the Spy shifted forward in his seat. They shared a long look, before the Scout dove in.

 

The kisses and licks over the material of his underwear shouldn’t have driven him as mad as they did, but he found his eyes falling half-closed as the runner’s tongue made hot stripes over his cock. Before he could even tell him to do so, the Scout was pulling the Spy’s shorts down, and wrapping his mouth around his head.

 

“Have you… You’ve done this before, haven’t you,” the Spy accused, mildly. The Scout pulled off, but his hand wrapped around the Spy’s length and stroked.

 

“You gonna spank me again if I say yes?” He looked so –devious—, the Spy couldn’t help the small noise in his throat, and the Scout lowered his mouth onto the Spy’s cock again.

 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you…” and it sounded more like a groan than the Spy would like, but he’d deny it, if pressed.

 

“I’d like you to fuck me,” came the quiet answer, muffled by the Spy’s twitching cock pressed against the Scout’s lips. “Daddy,” he added.

 

“My my,” the Spy murmured, pushing the Scout away to stand and remove his tie, his jacket, his shirt. “Aren’t –we— precocious. Your mother should wash your mouth out with soap.”

 

Then, the Scout looked cowed, again, turning away slightly and focusing on the floor until the Spy directed the runner’s gaze back to his.

 

“Ah, but we can deal with this, man to man, eh Sport?” He tried to smile convincingly, but the crease deepened in the Scout’s brow. “Come on now, what does my big boy say?”

 

“Yes, Daddy.”

 

“That’s right. Now get out of those filthy clothes,” he commanded, and, unsteadily, the Scout stood while the Spy settled back down, reclining on the small murphy bed. With just the slightest push, the Scout’s briefs fell to the floor, and he stepped out of them, less sure-footed than the Spy had ever seen him.

 

“That’s better, isn’t it? Now what are we going to do about –that—, hm?” He gestured to the Scout’s cock, twitching and beginning to leak, eager even as the Scout’s face burned with shame. “Don’t worry, your Papa will take care of you,” the Spy soothed, beckoning.

 

Kneeling over the Spy on the bed again, the Scout chewed his lips. It was best if he didn’t think about all of this, except to memorize every detail for later masturbatory recollection. He knew himself well enough not to pretend that wouldn’t happen. The Spy reached for him, and flipped them over, and the springs creaked under them while the Spy pinned him down. He arched, seeking friction, and the Spy laughed softly.

 

“Let’s not be too hasty, petit,” he admonished, tapping the Scout on the nose. The Scout only writhed again. “Oh, alright,” the Spy sighed, still smiling, acting the part of ‘indulgent’. “But you know I spoil you.”

 

“Yes, Daddy.”

 

When the Spy took off his gloves, the Scout found them softer than he’d imagined, but this was possibly due to the sandalwood oil the man produced from his attaché case.

 

“Now show Papa what a big boy you are and make yourself ready, hm?” he’d said, passing the oil over to the Scout. And, he’d watched with rapt attention as the Scout opened himself up with rapid, questing fingers. The Scout had made a real show of it, splayed on the pillows, legs spread wide, two then three fingers fucking himself while he panted and whimpered and moaned. Only when he was pleading did the Spy approach him on all fours, asking if he still wanted his present. The Scout nodded enthusiastically.

 

“Good,” the Spy answered, fitting himself between the Scout’s thighs.

 

It was almost too easy, with the Scout wrapping his long, limber limbs around the Spy’s body, pulling him close. He moaned, even as his face pinched, as the Spy thrust in, and encouraged with heels digging into the Spy’s back one long, slow push until the Spy was as deep as he could go.

 

“Yes, Daddy, -please—!” the Scout begged, and the Spy began to pull out, almost all the way, before driving in again, hard, and fast. “Yeah, just like that, oh, FUCK!”

 

The short, quick thrusts did not elicit the same responses as the long, punishing ones, and the Spy gripped the Scout’s shoulders and set to nailing him to the mattress. He panted, and felt his mask dampening with sweat, but the Scout raked nails down his back and bucked his hips, and howled and cursed.

 

“Oh, oh, OH, Daddy, yeah, fuck, you’re doin’ it so good!” he groaned, his back bowing off the bed. The Spy wrapped his hand around the Scout’s cock and drank in the answering whine. “Jesus Christ! Aw, aw FUCK, Daddy! Wait, wait don’t— not so, fff, just…!” Desperately, the Scout pushed the Spy’s hand away. “Don’t, please. I— I’ll come too fast if y’do. Just… just fuck me for a li’l bit, ‘kay?” And he looked so beseeching, and he squeezed the Spy’s hand once, and the Spy had to lean down and kiss him again, and the angle changed and the Scout’s scream was muffled against his lips.

 

A few more thrusts like that and the Scout was all but cross-eyed, panting and practically drooling.

 

“Your heart belongs to Daddy?” the Spy asked, his accent making it sound all the more filthy, and the Scout nodded until he was dizzy. “Say it,” he demanded, and the Scout forced his eyes open and stared with wide-blown pupils and wet lashes.

 

“My h-heart,” the Scout stuttered weakly, shaking with the Spy’s thrusts, clawing the sheets, “Belongs t-to, to Daddy.”

 

“And who is that? Who is your Daddy?”

 

“Augh, YOU! Oh GOD!” The Scout was tense, and so, so close.

 

“And you are mine?”

 

“Yours! I’m yours! I’m— fuck! FUCK!” And he was coming, throwing his arms around the Spy’s neck again and curling into him, face buried in the Spy’s shoulder to silence the deep, bone-shaking moans that rolled up out of him while he painted their stomachs white.

 

When he finally let go and collapsed back onto the thin mattress, he stared up with glassy eyes at the Spy, grinning. “C’mon,” he cajoled hoarsely, “I wanna feel it. Want you to cum all up in me and fill me up.”

 

“My God,” the Spy whispered.

 

“Yeah, Daddy. ‘Cuz you treat me SO well.”

 

The Spy bit the Scout’s shoulder as he came, groaning luxuriantly and snapping his hips and the Scout’s answering gasp and shout made it that much better as he pulsed into that willing body and shook along with it. He growled, bruising tender flesh, and the Scout only threw his head back and sighed “Mmmmm, Daddy!”

 

When the Spy pulled out, it was only to roll over and light a cigarette. The Scout looked at him imploringly, and begrudgingly, he lit a second one for the little brat.

 

“Check this out,” the Scout said, before taking a deep drag and blowing a few smoke rings.

 

The Spy smiled, and ruffled the Scout’s hair, and let him curl against him for at least a couple hundred more miles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking around! Find me on tumblr for more stuff, right?


End file.
